


and if that hacking bird won't sing

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Unusual Lullabies for Achy Old Ex-Assassins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26203696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: John can't sleep. Harold understands.
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 7
Kudos: 51





	and if that hacking bird won't sing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nourann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nourann/gifts).



> Written for the prompts _►: crisp, clean pajamas_ and _⌫: lullaby_ in a [Tumblr prompt meme](https://argylepiratewd.tumblr.com/post/627807443303448577/whumpbox-sick-whump-scenarios-send-a-symbol)
> 
> Title taken from the "Hush Little Baby" lullaby and twisted a bit—I was torn between having Harold sing/hum an actual lullaby or something else, and went with something else.

John stares down the clock, watching the bright red, lying digits creep from 1:59 to 2:00, and thinks about shooting the damn thing in its face. It would be easy. His handgun is right there. One shot would take it out.

But that would wake Harold up, and it's Harold's bastard of a clock, not his own. So John gives it death glares instead, watching the minutes tick silently past, sleep scared off by god knows what.

No. John knows what. Every inch of his body _aches_ , from the stitched-up gravel graze on the side of his head to the big toe he broke when he was a drunk and pissed-off teenager. He got beat all to hell yesterday, won the fight, but just barely, and he's bruised and sore, even queasy. And winter has crept into all the long-healed parts of his body that weren't throbbing, making him ache. He feels more like he's pushing 90 than 50, and no perfectly comfortable mattress or nice new pajamas can compensate for that shit at two in the morning.

It's kind of a shame about the PJs. Harold liked them, bought them for him, dressed him up in the crisp black cotton with a pleased little smile. He can still feel the gentle pressure of Harold's palms running up and down his chest and belly, warm and possessive and proud as he smoothed down the fabric. _"I do hope these suit you better than the flannel,"_ he said, hands finally settling on John's waist. _"They look_ exceptional _on you."_

 _"They'd probably look even better on the floor,"_ John told him, with a dirty smirk, and Harold rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful.

 _"Oh, lord,"_ Harold said. _"If there's an inappropriate cliché to be found, you_ will _find it, won't you?"_ Then he smiled and pulled John in for a kiss, sliding his hands down and getting in a nice squeeze to John's ass along the way.

That was hours ago. Now Harold sleeps peacefully beside him, snoring quietly every now and then, while John...doesn't. Sick of the damn clock, John rolls over to watch him instead, and finds out he was wrong—Harold's staring back at him, eyes barely open, watching him. Guilt takes a hold of his guts, and John reaches out and strokes Harold's face. "Hey there," he says, gently trailing his fingers down Harold's cheek. "Did I wake you up?"

Harold opens and closes his mouth, then grimaces, and his hesitance is answer enough. "Sorry," John says.

"You say that as though I haven't woken you up in the night many, many times." True. If it were a competition, they'd be roughly even, between both their nightmares, Harold's easily-angered body, and, of course, the numbers. But he hates waking Harold. Harold doesn't get enough sleep as it is. To wake him up...

Harold sits up, groaning a little along the way, and turns on the lamp next to the bed, then lies back down. "Now, what seems to be troubling you, my darling?" He holds open an arm and pats the space next to him, and John moves closer, pillowing his head on Harold's arm, burying his face in Harold's chest, breathing in Harold's warm, familiar scent.

"Don't know," John replies, splaying a hand on the small of Harold's back. "Can't sleep." He hates complaining to Harold about being in pain, knowing how badly Harold always hurts, especially with some of Harold's scars palpable through the green plaid flannel beneath his palm. But Harold always seems to get that information out of him anyway. "Feeling kinda achy."

"Oh, no. Your head?" Harold begins combing his fingers through John's hair, and the slide of Harold's fingertips through the strands, the gentle scrape of his nails over John's scalp sends a wave of calm tingling through him so quickly it's like flipping a switch. "You took a nasty bump to it."

It would be easiest to play it off as just a headache, but that's not fair to Harold. Not after all the times Harold's opened up to him, trusted him with the agonizing cramps in his surgery-torn muscles, the brutal pains in his spine and hip, the unpleasant side effects of his meds, the ongoing chaos in his brain. It's hard as hell for a person as private as Harold to admit to being in pain, but if Harold can do it, so can he. "Yeah," John says, "And everything else."

Harold makes a soft, sympathetic noise, and he runs his other hand up and down the length of John's back in long, slow strokes. "I know that feeling. Is there anything I can do?"

"Not really." Shaw has Bear for the night, but he's got everything else he needs to be content. He's got a comfortable bed, comfortable pajamas, a gun close by, and Harold safe beside him. That _should_ be enough. God knows he's slept in worse spots and through worse pain than this. But it's not enough—not tonight. His brain keeps darting from ache to ache, from pain to pain, every twinge both small and big calling attention to itself at least once, even after maxing out on every painkiller but the strong stuff. "Just gonna have to wait it out."

"Hm." John recognizes that tone, can easily picture the determined press of Harold's lips—he's given Harold a puzzle to solve. At two in the morning.

"Just go back to sleep. I'll be fine." John starts to push himself up—maybe he'll get out of bed, do a few stretches then go crash on the couch or something so he won't wake Harold again—but Harold takes hold of his arm and holds him down.

"Don't be ridiculous." Harold tightens his grip, and John stops resisting, settling down with Harold's arm as his pillow and a hand on Harold's waist. "You know I'd rather have you in here disturbing my sleep than hiding out somewhere else." His fingers start moving through John's hair again, calming and gentle. "And they do say that some rest is better than none at all. So just close your eyes and let yourself relax."

John shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, another dose of Harold's smell filling his nose and lungs, all skin and warmth, faint sleepy sweat, the last traces of cologne. Some of his tight muscles unlock, but not all of them, not even when he lets out a slow breath. He inhales again, drinking in the scent that feels like safety and home, and tries to focus on the good instead of the aches, on that smell and the heat radiating from Harold's skin, the comforting softness of his body nearby, the slow strokes of brilliant fingers over scalp and hair. Another slow exhale. Another lingering inhale. _Out_ , he tells himself. _In_.

As he breathes, the sound of humming filters in, something familiar. It takes John a moment to figure out the tune, and when he does, he lets out a quiet laugh. "Really?" he says. " _That's_ your idea of a lullaby?"

"First melody that popped into my head," Harold replies, equally amused. "Is there a problem with my song selection?"

"Am I a fat bottomed girl now, Harold?" He slides his hand down, cupping Harold's ass, and Harold chuckles.

"Well, you _do_ make my rocking world go 'round, and I quite like your bottom—though I'm not sure I'd call it 'fat' or you a girl." Harold's grin is easily heard, and it's contagious. Then, more softly, Harold says, "No. I just...I knew it would make you laugh. You don't do that often enough. I wanted you to."

John grins against Harold's chest, and kisses him, over his kind, gentle heart. Even if he never falls asleep, even if he gets dragged into another number while he’s still running on fumes first thing in the morning, it won't matter. Not after this. "Thank you," he says, and means it for much more than the weird lullaby.

"You're welcome," Harold says, and he starts humming again.


End file.
